One Must Be Kind To Beasts
She sat
on a bench in the park attending her thoughts
her...
sweltering, wretching, unsettling faults
meddling every dredging need caught
between the light of her dwelling
with moths -
from a locked-stiff closet her memory locked.
Eyes closed but sockets popping her retinas off
like her love and blood and grudges were condensed to a clot.
Cross legged,
arms flowing even to her shoulder distances.
Body connected the way her whole existence is -
a touching at points that leads to remorseful vigilance
when meditation melts into over-thinking it.
But..
She feels so omnipotent, so ubiquitous,
prone and limitless..
while she
only
sits and thinks.
In a park between
some dorms and apartments.
Surrounded by loudmouths she's courted and got with.
Where shes gotten more then retarded
doing shots until someone delivered Shawarma or Sonic.
She believes reminiscing is boring to logic,
so all her past thoughts leave her tornfully haunted.
She knows the layouts
of various balconies and living rooms
- and knows which of her exes has to see her sitting soon.
Banking on his wonderment
- His tragedy's her ritual
so she tries to appear casually conditional...
but between all her ghosts
it seems
this fantasy's habitual.
A demon spirit feeding fear itself
and blackening the richest souls.
They're all drawn to her
but above her, in a way.
Some look down at her
for the apologies shes struggling to make,
some do their own thing and some others look away.
Others are there as random clutter in her brain
that she drowns out like a gutter in the rain.
She's stuck between a hangover
and a walk, calling it a shame.
She's just a college chick
- a future worker and parent to some.
Passing a moment in her life she was barren amongst.
We'll respect her when her ties are barely undone
without knowing how she faired from her slums.
We'll assume she's felt disparity once
and wont relate her to the
witch
we rarely discuss.
"She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man." - E.M. ForsterSh
----------------------------
Agathodaemon's Bus
An olive rain coat, black top hat and a briefcase
- with a trail of smoke that brandish a dream-scape.
To get on his bus he walks through traffic mid-speed chase
and to park it he's gotta crash on the freeway.
All of his passengers prepaid, and are all city folks;
while the bus itself is his mechanical symbiote.
An aura surrounds them of blood splatter and rings of smoke
that take cues from graphics in videos.
They're addicts
and cynical about the habits that give them soul,
limit them, and stick'em with crass individuals.
The average, habitual, drinker is fuel to the engine.
- Business is great
the bus' movement's relentless
There isn't a moment he's not in the mood to be reckless
with push bars, spiked wheels and a buku of weapons
to make compact car cubes for some tetris.
He's on a crash course with assholes who're usually desperate
to speed through life from their futile inception.
- Is he creating destiny or just choosing the destined?
Either you're doomed in the present
or you're on fumes with a death wish
until your future's a dead end.
The losers are let in -
It's grueling and pleasant when the bus is fast in turns;
Tires screeching before it pumps its wrath and curse,
then its full speed ahead so rough the gravel bursts,
crushing bastards first -then they go in the flux capacitor.
It needs more souls
from mortals
drunk and lacking verve.
It feeds on beating hearts and constant massacres.
The driver speeds through the lights without a visa or license -
- he's just the entity - the demon inside it.
Born from the views that his mystique is so violent;
but he's simply out looking for people just like him.
He frequents his wine sips - merrymaking the road.
The vehicle pilots itself - unfairly taking control -
he'd be lucky to down shift, barely saving a soul.
He lives in this mobile morgue where the gate isn't closed;
- where he favors the dull and considers it reliant
that his biggest uproar consists of drinking himself quiet.
The turbo inlet's giant: tripling what the pistons are doing,
The exhaust is so loud it muffles the vision of movement,
It spits out fumes in a prism of plumage,
and runs a molten block under a cooling system of sewage.
With tires slipping on lubed slicks - drifting like cruise ships
wrecking everything from hoopties to the sickest of new whips
The underbelly - dripping wet and reckless,
with headlights that leave victims dead and remnants.
It's idea of road kill is drunk pet detectives
-and a good spread is when five cars spread the exit.
So when you're driving drunk, feeling hardly in danger
don't forget
Agathodaemon is your guardian angel.
--------------------------------
Smoking Aegis
It's funny how something with such tiny specifics
like mindless defenses perched under eyes and our centrics -
that fight with a sickness, change our height and dimensions,
and how light seems reflected - while defining our essence
might be effected by something so blinding and distant.
Take the bible for instance; Take a Life we've conditioned;
Lend silence and ears and blend science and fiction.
Watch green apples in a seaglass goblet apply the conniption...
Earth bred humans, but the sky was God's creator -
and three hundred cubic miles of water vapor
crafted clear in the stratosphere, spread so ominous,
and gave the ozone molecules for extra oxygen.
- A wedding ring of ice as a canvas above,
like a canopy hut that the immaculate hung.
Lightened, yet, the sky was red, - refracting the sun
until the ice would melt and pander a flood.
Earth breeds plants, and the vilest of humans,
with them - three hundred cubic miles of pollution.
The sky is so blue-ish...during minimal glow,
so filter your hope through rings of cigarette smoke.
Sprinkle a coat of colors as exhaust manifolds pop.
Nuclear neon's and violets are dabbled in blobs.
The sky is set with bright effects, blackened by smog,
until life'll melt or we bring cancer to God.
Brutes weren't the meanest - in tune with the seamless
safety between the ozone and Methuselah's aegis.
Neighbors like-family acted communal as creatures;
Subdued by the frequents of rurality's bliss.
- Produce the greenest - an air born UV protectant -
Slowing their aging - folks in their 80's look newly developed.
People were hundreds of years old when the sex begun
and Patriarchs played their parts for close to millenniums.
Rapturous workings - looking for bastardized mercy
with palms shackling the aegis of pastors and clergy.
Cars crashing and burning - cellphones family alerting;
Neighbors daft to trailer trashing accident 'turvy's.'
Aging cream and tanning lotions keep ladies refined -
who intake UV rays until the day that they die.
Extremist tricks leaving kids racing to try -
and alcoholic dad involvement is wasting some child.
No tailored theatrics, their language was tactless.
Every word spoken was directly related to actions.
One dialect devised and kept - trained to the masses
and the world functioned without straining the planet;
Families and travelers able to discuss what they want -
Then the ring melted and caused a flood for a month.
Subtly some sunk - Noah and others drifted apart.
Shivers and shock progressed into lisps when they talked;
An individual's thoughts, plus affliction and loss
shaped the way our brains would shift and evolve.
Some simply forgot, some don't know what it means
to realize our ancestors had the Utopian dream.
We're French Canadians managing amongst friends,
We're Indian Brits listening to Japanese Ebonics,
We're deaf-mutes with reputes to cry in astonishment,
We're a collective voice that sounds like an argument...
It's funny how something with such tiny specifics
like mindless defenses perched under eyes and our centrics -
that fight with a sickness, change our height and dimensions,
and how light seems reflected - while defining our essence
might be effected by something so blinding and distant -
such as as a star, vapors,
timing and minutes.
We've changed in every way and
written the plight of our legends,
but between creation and path there's no final consensus.
--------------------------------
Wedding
A presentable mess, dignified by the hunch enharbored
in a sleek suit that weighted him like tungsten armor.
Making a glowing entrance from the sunlit parlor
with a pep in his step while the munchkins lauded.
He didnt jump for joy, and his frame wasn't rigid.
He walked the aisle with his ball and chain like a skip it.
Her head orbiting him, navigated by physics
as eyes were the counter that rolled...feigning her interest.
An ensamble plays without change in a cymbal
as he nears rows of people he favors and mimics.
The furthest ones back ensure a spaceless exhibit
and those in between meet his cantankerous limits.
The strength of his muscles beg for forlorn rescue
but he's walking trapped in war torn dress shoes.
Each step is a relief only when he's pausing slowly
as the latch of the ball and chain is causing cold feet.
He wasn't a mess before he put that suit on.
He thinks the marriage wont drag his foot for too long.
With all the light shining on his largest omen...
all he had to do was vow past his darkest moments.
She walked with a smug smile and the flair of a princess.
Each layer of her gown could air out her business.
If only her corset could spare the constriction
so she could breathe before vowing bare to the witness.
She wore her ball and chain to her marriage indifferent -
a fashionable dress belt you'd compare with a vixens.
It was thicker than usual - with daring ambition
to help hide the bulge where she was bearing her children.
Broken values alongside karma that faltered
as she walked perched against the arm of her father.
Approaching the terrifying, yet, marvelous alter
while thinking thoughts to harmful to maunder.
She relishes each second lived in this damn dress
but anticipates the moment her spirits transgress -
Throwing the bouquet of balls and chains from her mound
to strike like a midevil mace at the crowd.
She's ready to be swept into the night any moment
but first she passes off this rite of emotion.
She's getting ready to be much more lady like -
with thoughts that could make her unborn baby cry.
They sat as the masses - swooned, or born to act.
All dressed similarly - but less uniform than fad.
Mannequin smiles stretched when a mood of normal passed
and toasts were replied to with a group of formal laughs.
They had all gone through this motion of passage -
Their personal dichotomies were open to fashion.
Some women wore earrings that were rolls of their black whips,
while scars held the dress up for those in a strapless.
Most had wedding bands but no dote in their actions
- a tungsten and diamond wonder twin controlling the masses.
Those who had kids kept a grain of salt employed
as chains were leashes for their balls of joy.
The men had problems raising their glasses to toast -
in contract tight cuff links and a mannequin pose.
The strap on their throat was for pain to subside
when hanging their head by the ball and chain as their tie.
A Kansas City Shuffle for certain individuals
bordering between a circus and a ritual.
Laughter and applause are perchant in their visuals,
in the manner that everyone's working for their victuals.
Even bride and groom aren't partial to the antics -
respectively imaginable - the garter and the dancing.
Black suits and white collars in this heritage setting
entrapped as a charade for the American wedding.
---------------
Hair of the Dog
[s0ize=1]"Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed."- Irene Peter[/size]
Everything was red - like when you're awake but your numb
and your eyes are closed but you're facing the sun.
You lie there with your head aching a ton
while managing the confined space in your lungs.
Your tastebuds are pushing up daisies and rum,
but you cant get rid of the flavor it sprung.
Your eyelids slowly stop hugging themselves
and the sun greets your temple with a bludgeon to help.
Focus is pulled to become a drumskin that's stretched
as hollow hearts evolve beyond a "bumping effect."
Summer is met as the sky's blues are magnified
while pupils half their size from hues that stagger eyes.
A dizzyness comes from the woozy-patterened sky
like things lightly reflected are dually sacrificed.
Movement might happen like you're flinching through systems
and rolling in graves to get into the sitting position.
A lawn exposed with torture methods strange and passe
- your head pounded the same direction and way the grass sways.
The green color palpitates against your face in vast rays
and its existence alone elates the drab pain.
The weight just cascades pushing the earth and your sleep
of mud muddled from tears rubbing the dirt on your cheeks.
A proverbial groan that sounds like it merged with a squeel
is let out between a muttered prayer and a courteous plea.
Eyes searching the field find the sun shimmering
against your open handle beside your unfinished drink.
That one glistening thing makes you wince at the sky;
forcing a reverse vertigo feeling of drifting inside.
The light blue comforts while bridging the sight
with tear sockets too dirt clogged and hindered to cry.
There's grit in your eye, and a timely memory
blurring a vision of future with myraid effigies.
What's you're reaction to this climate, mentally?
- Wet behind the ears no matter how dry the weather feels.
Breezes that free skin but can dampen your gasps.
Chain tight vein lines along hands in a path
that lead to fatigue while you stand in the grass.
Mundane sun rays thats force you to grab for that glass.
Shattered, relaxed, irked and swept with fear...
the warm drink becomes a working grenadier.
You slowly examine the dirt you slept on here
to see one outstanding German Shepard ear.
A glance at what you began the night prior,
as a gust thrusts your innards and expands your eyes wider.
- Expierencing a best friend being buried to rot
- both your sense of control and clarity lost...
Liquid courage rises as your lips cherish the sauce.
You'll end and start this the same way
- hair of the dog.